


The Thieves' Den

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The discovery of a large cache of stolen goods ends badly.</p><p>Betaed by Ladyofthelog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thieves' Den

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardust_made](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/gifts).



“Good Lord,” exclaimed Watson as he followed Holmes through the cellar window. “This looks like a storeroom at Christie's.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, moving further into the jumbled mass of antique furniture, paintings and assorted _objets d'art_ that cluttered the room. He examined a few, discovering at least one of the Ming vases that had been stolen from Lord Rutherford the previous year, two paintings that had been part of the Dover train robbery in January and a diamond bracelet that Madame Barthot had reported missing last month. “It would appear that my hypothesis was correct. Neville and his men are more than just the cutpurses that Scotland Yard thinks they are.”

“A lot more!” exclaimed Watson. “This must be the biggest cache of stolen goods ever found.”

Holmes looked around again, casting his eye over the scattered piles. “Possibly,” he allowed. “The Genoa haul might have contained more objects, but I suspect this one will be worth more, once it is all catalogued.”

“And it's been in the centre of London all this time. Unbelievable,” said Watson. He turned to catch Holmes's eye. “And you're the one that found it. Holmes, you're incredible.”

He looked at him with that look of pure admiration that he used solely for Holmes, the one that Holmes was always caught by, unable to resist the glow of pride and satisfaction that rushed through him. Watson's praise had a power over him that he had never been able to quantify and which cleared his mind of all thought beyond the sheer pleasure of having impressed him and the desire to keep doing so. Increasingly, this feeling also came with an urge to step forward and kiss the look from Watson's face until he wore quite another entirely.

There was a faint sound from the other side of the door: footsteps in the corridor. The moment was broken as Holmes's mind calculated the amount of time they would need to be able to escape back out the window, and the amount of time that they likely had before someone came in. The two did not match up favourably.

“Quick!” he hissed, grabbing for Watson's hand and dragging him into the best hiding place available under the circumstances, behind a delicately carved Georgian writing desk that was half-covered with a cloth.

The space available was not really large enough for two grown men, and they were required to crouch close together in order to fit, pressed tightly against each other from shoulders to knees. Holmes had to exert all the control he had over his body in order to keep his breathing shallow and quiet. He could feel Watson's warmth seeping through his jacket and feel every shift of his muscles as he tried to find a comfortable position. It was a sensation he knew his mind would be returning to later, when he was safely in the solitary seclusion of his room, but for the moment it was pure torture.

 _Damn the man,_ he thought, aware how uncharitable he was being. This was his problem and very much his fault, not Watson's. Hopefully, Watson had no idea that his friend's brain was even capable of being befuddled in this manner, let alone that it was his own person that caused it.

The door of the cellar opened a moment later, breaking through Holmes's distraction, and several sets of footsteps entered.

“It's worked well enough so far, what should we care about some busybody?” said a coarse voice.

“It's not just any busybody, it's Sherlock Holmes,” said another. “He's the one that shut down Conrad's lot.”

The original voice, which Holmes suspected belonged to Neville himself, made a disgusted noise. “Are you saying I'm as sloppy as Conrad? No, we'll be fine. Just got to keep being careful, is all. Come on, let's get the-”

His voice cut off suddenly, then there were two quick steps in the direction of the window. Holmes's mind flashed to how he had left it when they had entered, unlatched in order to facilitate their exit.

“Has anyone been stupid enough to open this?” he asked. There was a chorus of denial, punctuated by the sound of the window's hinges squeaking. “It's definitely open,” said Neville. “Someone's been in here. Search the room!”

A shiver of cold fear went down Holmes's spine and he glanced at Watson's face. It betrayed the same emotion. Their hiding place was likely to be discovered within minutes, if it even lasted that long, and Holmes knew all too well what kind of retribution the gang would have upon them. It seemed unlikely that either of them would survive the night unless he could come up with a clever scheme in the next few seconds.

His brain whirled, desperate for any solution, but came up with nothing. The number of footsteps indicated that there were far more ruffians than he and Watson could successfully fight without assistance, and they were all likely to be armed in some way. Watson had his revolver, but it would do them little good on its own. He would only have time to shoot one of them men before the others returned the favour. They were too far from the window to be able to make a dash for it, even if they could have both climbed back up to it and squeezed through without being either caught or shot. The door was closer, and still open, but it led further into the building, where there were likely to be more members of the gang. Going that way would only lead to them being caught like rats in a trap.

Watson shifted his weight slightly, pressing his hip more firmly against Holmes's so that he could carefully peer out around the desk, then he pulled his head back and turned to Holmes. His face was mere inches away from Holmes's and his eyes shone with determination, recognisable even in the dim light behind the desk.

Watson bent in even closer, until his mouth was pressed to Holmes's ear. “Stay here, then get the police as quickly as possible,” he said in a voice that was barely more than air. The feel of his breath against Holmes's skin distracted him for the few crucial seconds it took for him to realise what Watson intended, and then it was too late.

Watson burst from concealment, firing his revolver wildly, and bolted for the door, yelling incoherently. Holmes almost followed him by pure instinct, but his brain chose that moment to finally start working correctly. If he followed Watson, they would both end up trapped. He needed to stay concealed so that at least one of them might be able to seek assistance.

There was a thump as one of the gang attempted to get in Watson's way and was knocked aside by one of the moves Watson had learnt on the rugby field. There were shouts and a few shots from the other gang members, then Watson was through the door, disappearing down the corridor further into the house.

“After him!” shouted Neville, but it was an unnecessary command. Most of the men in the room had already followed after Watson, and the rest were not far behind. Within a handful of seconds, Holmes was alone in the cellar.

He forced himself to wait for two minutes in order to make sure no one would come back, fuming with a rage at Watson that barely concealed the maelstrom of panicked worry at his core. What kind of a plan was it that put Watson into danger without Holmes to back him up? Once they had got out of this, alive and unharmed, Holmes was going to spend some time making it clear to him just what a bad idea that was. And they would get out of this, both of them. He couldn't possible contemplate any other outcome.

The cellar remained quiet, so he crept from concealment and climbed out of the window, then set off to find a policeman as quickly as possible, aware that Watson was likely already in the hands of the gang. They would likely want to know who Watson was and how he had found their hiding place too much to immediately injure him beyond the ability speech, but that was not a great deal of comfort.

 

By the time Holmes returned with every policeman he could find in the area, nearly twenty minutes had passed. They were not entirely equipped to take on a gang the size of Neville's, but Holmes was sickeningly aware of just how long Watson had been in the hands of the gang, and wasn't interested in waiting for reinforcements. The police stormed the building, shouting loudly in order to make it sound as if there were more of them than there were, and the gang scattered, escaping from every possible exit. Holmes wasn't concerned with that - let them run, as long as they left Watson behind. He would be able to find them later.

“Over here!” came a shout with the combination of urgency and panic that generally meant discovery of an injured party. Holmes immediately turned his steps that way.

He stopped dead when he turned the corner. Two policemen were already there, stooped over what looked more like a heap of bloodstained rags than a person. For a moment, Holmes's brain refused to identify it as Watson, then he took a firmer control of himself.

He stepped forward, dropping to his knees at Watson's side. “Watson?” he called, hand hovering over his shoulder as he tried to ascertain where it was safe to touch him. The thieves had clearly caught up with him, then just got him on the floor and beaten him with whatever was to hand – their fists and boots mainly, but Holmes could also see the marks of at least one cudgel.

Watson didn't respond. His face was uncommonly pale and his eyes were pressed shut. If it hadn't been for the harsh, pained sound of his breathing, he might have been dead. There was a wound on the back of his head that was still seeping blood – someone with heavy boots had kicked him there.

“Watson, come on now,” Holmes said. His voice came out far more strained than he wanted the policemen to hear it, and he cleared his throat. “Wake up now,” he said. “You're safe.”

“We've sent for a doctor,” said one of the policemen.

Holmes nodded distractedly. Why wouldn't Watson wake up? He needed to see the blue of his eyes, see his face crease into something other than slack unconsciousness.

“Come on now, no need for all this melodrama,” he said, finally daring to place his hand on Watson's shoulder at a place that looked as if it might have escaped injury. “Wake up.”

Watson's eyes remained shut.

 

A doctor arrived, took one look at Watson and immediately arranged transport to the nearest hospital, where the medical staff spent several hours fussing over Watson's injuries, stitching and bandaging and exchanging grave looks. Holmes paced in the corridor outside Watson's room, his brain presenting him with every single opportunity he had missed to prevent this.

If he had just been concentrating on the sounds coming from outside the cellar, rather than his flush of pride at Watson's admiration; if he had thought to shut the cellar window completely, hiding all trace of their existence; if he had been able to think faster and come up with a solution that didn't end with Watson sacrificing himself; if he had just... The thoughts went on and on, circling around his head until he was close to just ripping it off to escape them.

When the doctor finally emerged, his facial expression was not reassuring. “Most of the wounds should heal well enough,” he said. “The most serious injuries are three broken ribs and his left leg, which is also broken. It is a relatively simple fracture, however - we've set it, and it shouldn't cause any long-term difficulties. What is more concerning is the head wound, I'm afraid. I must be frank with you, it is serious, but we can't tell how serious until he wakes up.” He paused, and his expression gave away what he was going to say next. “You should be prepared in case he does not wake up. The longer he remains as he is, the less likely a recovery is.”

Holmes managed a nod, then he pushed past the man to see for himself.

Wrapped in bandages and lying on white sheets, Watson didn't look much better than he had at the Neville gang's den. His breathing was still slow and harsh – a side effect of the broken ribs, no doubt - and his eyes remained firmly shut. A bruise had formed on his cheek but other than that, there was no colour in his face at all.

Holmes slumped into a chair at his bedside, clasped his hands in his lap, and settled in to wait. Watson would wake up. He would have to – Holmes wasn't interested in any other outcome.

 

He waited through what remained of the night and into the morning. At one point, Inspector Gregson appeared to inform him that they had managed to arrest Neville and the majority of his gang. He attempted to congratulate Holmes on finding their hide-out and recovering their loot, but Holmes scowled at him until the words died off.

Gregson eventually retreated, leaving Holmes alone with Watson, who had still made no sign at all that he was likely to wake up any time soon. Holmes looked at his blank face and let out a sigh.

“This is getting cruel now, old boy,” he said. “You're generally not cruel – please don't start now.”

There was no reaction from Watson.

The day wore on, punctuated by visits from various medical personnel who pinched their lips together as they left in a way that made Holmes's blood chill. They did not think Watson would wake up. The doctor – his name was MacArthur, but Holmes was finding it hard to hold such details in his head – came by several times. Each time he tried to persuade Holmes that there was no use in waiting at Watson's bedside.

“We will contact you as soon as there is a change,” he said.

Holmes shook his head. “I have nowhere else to be right now,” he said. “I might as well be here.”

The day wore into evening and he knew the staff were whispering about him, and how long he had been sat, unmoving, beside Watson's bed. Well, damn them. He wasn't leaving Watson's side until he was sure that doing so wouldn't be the last he saw him alive.

“Come on,” he found himself saying at various points through out the day. “Come on, wake up, Watson.” One or twice he even went as far as to take his hand, clasping at it tightly as if he could call him back just with his touch. “I need you with me.”

That was far too true. He couldn't imagine his life without Watson in it, not now he had become so used to his presence. Who would he amaze with his brilliance? Who would he lead around London in search of criminals? Who would he make chuckle into his brandy on cold winter evenings? No, it was impossible. Watson would have to wake up. Holmes couldn't continue without him.

That was probably selfish of him, but he had never claimed to be an altruistic man, and certainly not about Watson. After all, he was the one man that Holmes could stand to be around, that he had formed a friendship with that was based on more than mutual convenience. Surely that meant that Watson belonged to him, in some small way? And, of course, he was the one person that Holmes could imagine himself in any kind of sexual or romantic relationship with, although he knew that imagination was all that would ever be. Even so, that he could feel such things for Watson, whether or not they were returned, was enough. It was more than he'd ever expected. 

A nurse bustled in at around nine o'clock. “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised. “Are you still here?” She collected herself a moment later. “I'm sorry, Sir, it's just that we ask most visitors to leave at around this time. Patients need their rest, you know.”

“Watson is doing nothing but rest,” Holmes pointed out.

“Yes, sir,” she acknowledged. “It's just-” She looked flustered and Holmes took pity on her.

“There is no need to worry,” he said. “I do not intend to interrupt the healing process of either Watson or any of your other patients. I shall merely be sitting here.”

The expression on her face gave away that that was not the answer she wanted. “Very well then,” she said and disappeared.

 _Gone to find a doctor,_ thought Holmes glumly. Well, it was not as if any doctor would be able to move him either. The only man who had the power to convince Sherlock Holmes to do something he didn't want to do was currently lying silently in the bed in front of him. Holmes would gladly leave if Watson would just wake up and be well enough to order him to do so.

Two different doctors did come and try to persuade him to go home, without success. Holmes just scowled at them until they went away, then pressed two fingers to the inside of Watson's wrist so that he might feel the weak, thready pulse of his heart, wishing fervently that was something he could do to strengthen it.

It was nearly midnight when the telegram arrived. There were very few people who could have sent Holmes a telegram here and he knew instantly which of them it was from.

ENOUGH SHERLOCK STOP COME HERE STOP MYCROFT FINAL STOP

The only other man who could ever compel Holmes, although he usually chose to forget it. He looked at the paper, then at Watson's pale face. That Mycroft had contacted him at all, let alone at such a late hour when he was almost always already asleep, was proof that he meant it, and yet, Holmes was still tempted to disobey. How could he just walk away when Watson was like this?

Another telegram arrived two minutes later, to the Matron's extreme annoyance.

YOU ARE HELPING NO ONE FINAL STOP

Holmes felt frustration rise up in him. Of course he wasn't helping – there was no way to help. The time when he could have done something to help had been in the cellar, but he had been too distracted by Watson and let it slip through his fingers. Now all he could do was wait and hope that his mistakes wouldn't cost Watson his life.

“If there is somewhere else you need to be, we can send you word if anything changes,” said the Matron pointedly.

Holmes allowed himself a moment of intense anger at the situation, then jerked a nod.

“I will be at this address,” he said, finding a scrap of paper in his pocket and scrawling out Mycroft's address on it. “Contact me the instant his condition changes.”

“Of course,” she said, taking the paper and tucking it away. Holmes examined her carefully for signs that she would disregard the instruction, but she prided herself on her professionalism too much for that, no matter how much she disliked him.

He glanced back at Watson one last time, unable to risk any last words with the Matron standing there, then left.

 

Mycroft was settled in his armchair, wrapped in an enormous dressing gown that looked as if it might have been able to double as bed curtains. There was glass of brandy waiting for Holmes on the table next to the armchair facing Mycroft's. Holmes snatched it up and took a large gulp from it, but didn't deign to sit. He felt far too restless for that. Instead, he paced the floor as he finished the drink, then poured himself another.

Only then did Mycroft speak. “My dear brother. Calm yourself.”

Holmes spun around. “If he dies,” he started, and then found himself stumbling over the word, unable to continue. If Watson died, then what? How could he recover from such a thing?

Mycroft sighed. “I am aware of what that would mean for you,” he said.

“Are you?” asked Holmes. How could anyone else understand how painful merely the thought of it was?

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “Sit down, Sherlock. You and I are capable of a great deal that is beyond most ordinary men, but this is out of our hands.”

Holmes let out a sigh at the truth of that, then threw himself into the armchair.

Capable of a great deal, and yet this had happened to Watson on his watch. His brain kept circling back to that fact, endlessly running back through the moments when he could have taken a different action and saved the situation. When he asked himself why he hadn't, the answer was all too obvious.

“My affection for him put him in this state,” he said.

There was no need to explain further. It was likely that Mycroft had known of the depth of Holmes's feelings for Watson even before Holmes had truly realised it for himself.

“I rather thought it was the men who beat him that put him in this state,” remarked Mycroft.

Holmes made a disgusted noise and sprang to his feet again. “I was distracted,” he said. He crossed to the fireplace and then back again. “He looked at me – that's all, just a _look_ \- and I was distracted.”

Mycroft made a thoughtful noise that only served to make Holmes more irritated. “Tell me precisely what happened.”

Holmes took a breath and returned to his chair. Laying out a series of events so that Mycroft could point out which conclusions he should have drawn was familiar ground from when they had been children. He could manage that.

Mycroft was silent for a while after he had finished. Holmes found himself fidgeting with impatience and stood again to pour another glass of brandy in order to occupy himself.

“It seems to me that you are rather maligning the Doctor by casting him as a passive figure in this drama,” said Mycroft eventually. “He made his own choice, after all. He chose to distract the gang so that you might escape. Claiming all that followed from that as your fault seems rather egocentric of you.”

“He wouldn't have had to if I hadn't-” started Holmes hotly, but was interrupted.

“The die was cast,” said Mycroft. “It is impossible to say if the situation would have played out differently if you had different feelings towards Doctor Watson. What we can say is that he preferred to risk himself than see you get hurt. Second-guessing the incident is a disservice to him.”

“It was an idiotic thing to do,” snapped Holmes.

Mycroft made a humming noise. “It is rather an interesting choice. He is clearly devoted to you.”

Holmes glowered at him. “We both know that Watson is respectable down to his bones. Implying otherwise is merely wishful thinking that will lead to disappointment.” Wishful thinking that Holmes had allowed to himself to indulge in more than once over the last few months, only to have his fragile hopes dashed by reality.

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft. “With an outsider's perspective, however-”

“Don't,” spat out Holmes. “It is as it is. Don't meddle, Mycroft.”

“Oh, I wouldn't dream of it,” said Mycroft. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and made a face. “I'm afraid I shall have to retire now. My schedule has already been completely thrown out by all this drama.”

He levered his bulk out of the chair and into a standing position. “Do stay away from the hospital at least until the morning,” he said. “You will not help Watson by causing talk, you know. The spare room is made up for you if you would prefer not to return home.”

Holmes nodded. He would prefer not to sleep at all tonight, but he hadn't had any the previous night and for a few days before that, he had snatched only a few hours here and there, in between investigating Neville and his men. He suspected he was not going to have a great deal of choice in the matter.

“Good night then, brother,” said Mycroft.

“Good night,” returned Holmes.

 

Holmes's body, worn out both by lack of rest and worry, betrayed him to the extent of remaining soundly asleep until nearly midway through the morning, when there was a tap at his door.

“Enter,” he called, trying to shake of the fuzziness of sleep and gather his thoughts.

Mycroft's manservant came into the room. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “This came for you.”

It was a telegram from the hospital. Holmes was immediately wide awake, and he ripped it open.

DOCTOR WATSON AWAKE AND COHERENT FINAL STOP

Only five words, and yet it was enough to send joy and relief surging through Holmes.

“Hot water,” he ordered. “I need to leave as quickly as possible.”

“Very good, sir,” said the servant, withdrawing. Holmes flung aside his bedcovers and leapt to his feet. No time to lose.

 

He did his best to keep his pace normal as he strode through the hospital wards. It wouldn't do to be seen running to the bedside of his friend, no matter how much he wished to.

Watson was still awake when he arrived at his room, blinking around at the walls with the blue eyes that Holmes had almost despaired of seeing again.

“Watson,” he said, unable to keep in his immense relief. He stepped as close to the bed as he could get and forced his hands to stay at his side rather than reach out for Watson as they desperately wanted to.

Watson beamed at the sight of him. “Holmes,” he said in a hoarse voice, then winced.

“Don't strain yourself,” commanded Holmes.

Watson ignored him. “You're not hurt?” he asked in a slurred voice that betrayed the administration of morphine.

“Of course not,”said Holmes. Trust Watson to ask after Holmes's health when he was the one in a hospital bed.

Watson beamed again, the smile practically radiating off his face. “Good, that's good,” he said, then reached out with a weak hand and patted at Holmes's wrist. “That's very good.”

Holmes looked at where Watson's fingers were groping for a grip on his arm and remembered how he had done precisely the same thing to Watson yesterday. He glanced back at Watson's expression, noting how the drug had pushed aside his usual reserve so that his pleasure at Holmes's presence shone forth without restraint.

Holmes found himself experiencing a thought he was rather too familiar with. _Perhaps Mycroft was right, and I was wrong._ Rather than being accompanied by the usual sense of chagrin, though, this time it came with the feeling of possibilities that he had thought locked shut opening up for him.

He put his other hand over Watson's as it clutched at his arm, returning Watson's smile with one of his own that was, perhaps, too large for someone not currently experiencing the effects of morphine. He could not bring himself to rein it in just yet, however. He had done enough hiding his feelings from Watson, after all.

“That's very good,” said Watson again, then his eyes slid shut. Holmes pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down, content to wait until they opened again. This time, he was perfectly confident that they would.

 

“That's it, Watson, just one more step,” coaxed Holmes as he helped Watson up the final few steps to their rooms.

“Holmes, I am perfectly aware how many steps there are,” said Watson, although it sounded more amused than irritated.

“Are you?” asked Holmes, taking care to keep his steps slow and small as they continued towards the sofa. “How many are there, then?”

There was a pause, possibly caused by Watson's attempt to catch his breath despite his healing ribs, but more likely so that he could count the steps they had just ascended. “Nineteen?” he hazarded eventually.

“Seventeen,” corrected Holmes. They had reached the sofa, but he kept hold of Watson as he lowered himself into it.

“I was including the two up to the front door,” said Watson as he relaxed against the cushions. Holmes had no further excuse to keep his hands on him and so let go and stepped back, albeit with reluctance.

“Of course,” he said, as if he believed any such thing. “Except that there are three up to the front door.”

Watson paused for a moment, then let out a restrained laugh – the best he could currently manage with his injuries. “Oh, very well,” he said. “I have no idea how many steps there are, despite each of them being such a strain for me right now.”

Holmes assessed Watson's appearance with a glance. His slumped shoulders spoke of just how exhausting he had found the trip from the hospital, but his expression bore the relaxation of finally being back home. Seeing him settled on their sofa where he belonged was enough to finally loosen part of the tight knot in Holmes's chest that had persisted since he had escaped the Neville gang's cellar alone.

The reminder of that moment in the cellar, when Watson had run straight into danger, brought back the raising surge of anger he had spent the last few days trying to restrain. It did not do to shout at an invalid, after all, and especially not in a hospital where the nursing staff were already ill-disposed to him. He would wait until Watson was settled and comfortable, and then express to him precisely why his actions had been unacceptable, and that he must never do anything like it again. Ever.

He took a careful breath, subduing the anger again. “I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to bring some tea up,” he declared, and turned away.

Watson grabbed for his wrist before he could go, then let out a pained breath that betrayed how much the suddenness of the action had cost him. Holmes immediately turned back to him.

“Wait, Holmes,” said Watson. “Please, sit with me for a moment. There was never any chance for privacy at the hospital.”

That was true. There had been a near-constant stream of nurses and doctors preventing conversation even before Watson had been judged well enough to be moved from his private room to a ward, between a young boy with a broken leg and an old man who insisted on coughing at all hours. Initially, Holmes had been frustrated that he would not have a chance to test Mycroft's theory, but after Watson had grown well enough for his reactions to be un-befuddled by medication, he was glad of the chance to observe Watson's reactions. 

His observations had not been encouraging. Holmes began to doubt what he had thought he had seen in his eyes. After all, he had hardly been in his right mind. He decided that further observation was necessary before he took any action – the last thing he wanted was to risk their friendship, after all. He would not say or do anything until he was certain it would be welcomed.

Watson's desire for a moment of privacy now could mean anything, of course, but Holmes couldn't prevent cold worry sinking into his stomach. He pushed it aside as he sat on the sofa, firmly reminding himself that he was the master of his emotions, not the other way round. It did not escape his notice that Watson did not let go of his wrist, even once he was settled.

“Holmes,” said Watson, then he stopped and pursed his lips.

Whatever he had to say was both important and delicate, then. Holmes wondered if his less-than-subtle behaviour during Watson's unconsciousness had been reported to Watson. His hand on Holmes's wrist indicated that he wasn't going to react with anger or revulsion, but it was still possible that he was intending to let Holmes down as gently as he could, in an attempt to spare his feelings and maintain his friendship.

“Just say it,” suggested Holmes. “I think you know me well enough to know I prefer bluntness to prevarication.”

Watson let out a huffed laugh. “Indeed,” he acknowledged, no doubt thinking of several occasions on which Holmes had been, perhaps, unnecessarily blunt. “Very well, then. When you came back here yesterday to fetch some clothes for me, your brother came to see me.”

Holmes blinked with surprise. “Mycroft? But what could-” Oh. Jupiter had bestirred himself in order to meddle in Holmes's affairs. He felt himself flush with anger at the presumption.

“Don't be angry with him,” said Watson quickly, correctly interpreting Holmes's expression. “He merely confirmed what I had already known. It's just that I found myself unable to trust my perceptions, because the consequences of being wrong would be-” He hesitated, looking for the right word.

Holmes took a deep breath. “Catastrophic,” he finished. He had followed that line of thought many times himself, always coming to the conclusion that maintaining the status quo was better than risking everything.

He glanced down at Watson's hand on his wrist, then risked putting his own around it and carefully squeezing.

Watson's face lit up in the same way it had when he had first seen Holmes after waking from his coma, but this time there were no drugs to blame it on. “Then it is true,” he said. “You do- That is-”

“I care a great deal for you, Watson,” he said. That hardly seemed adequate, but he wasn't sure how else to phrase it. “A great deal more than I suspect I will ever be able to express,” he added, because that was almost certainly true. He struggled to find other words that might convey precisely what he meant, but it was unable to come up with anything that felt close to what he wanted to say. Instead, he raised Watson's hand to his lips and press a kiss to the back of it.

“Oh,” exhaled Watson. The wondering tone of it and the happiness beginning to suffuse his face was enough to tell Holmes that his words were not only welcome, but reciprocated.

“That is why,” Holmes struggled on, because there was one thing that it was extremely important he make clear to Watson, even if the rest of it remained beyond him, “you must never do anything like this again. You mustn't seek to protect me like that – I can't bear to see you hurt for my sake.”

Watson clutched tighter at Holmes's hand. “Don't you see?” he said. “Holmes, that is precisely why I had to do it, and would do it again. I couldn't bear to see you hurt either.”

Holmes took a deep and careful breath against the emotion that flooded through him at that. Once it had passed, he could not help but think that if both of them really were equally determined to protect the other without concern for their own safety, then they should hope that none of their enemies ever found out just how easy it would be to use that to manipulate them.

“Then we shall just have to make sure we are not placed in such a situation again,” he said, rather than press the point. This did not seem the opportune time to try and convince Watson just how essential it was that he remain healthy and whole, even at the cost of Holmes's own well-being, or even his life. There would be time later for that discussion.

Watson pulled gently at Holmes's hand. “Well, that should be easy, given our lifestyle,” he said wryly, with a grin that did nothing to hide the determination in his eyes. 

_He is thinking the same thing,_ Holmes thought. _He is probably already planning his arguments._ He wasn't sure whether to be aggravated that Watson wouldn't just do as he asked on this or amused that their thoughts were so in tune with each other.

In the end, he put both emotions aside and gave in to Watson's careful tugs until he was pressed in close against him, although he kept his weight off Watson's healing body as best he could.

“This argument can be finished later,” said Watson, and his mouth was so close to Holmes's that Holmes could feel his breath move against his lips.

 _We will never finish having this argument,_ he thought distantly, but that seemed rather unimportant at that moment, when he was finally able to reach out for Watson and kiss him as he had desired to do a thousand times.


End file.
